Margherita's Notebook (29 page)

“So you're the one who wants to put himself to the test, to find his roots?!” Giovanale was glaring furiously at him. Despite his age, his massive physique still gave the impression that the man was not to be trifled with.

Nicola looked at him, unable to say a word, wondering what could possibly have made him so angry. With his trademark poise and his most sincere smile, he asked, “Haven't we already had this conversation? Calm down and tell me what's happened.”

The winemaker tried to get a grip on himself, but his voice betrayed the anger he was feeling.

“You are an outlaw, Ravelli. You may act like a man of the world, but it's all a scam, you're nothing but a swindler.” Nicola stiffened. “That tall tale you gave us about the prodigal son who wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, all rubbish!
Absolute rubbish! Your father is probably turning in his grave right now knowing what you did with his land, his Lagrein . . . Industrial wine!” Giovanale's voice contained all the disappointment he was feeling, but also his scorn for the man who had tried to deceive him.

“I don't know what you're talking about . . .” Nicola tried to bluff, though doubting he would succeed.

“Don't you pretend with me! I know all about your consortium, your wine sweetened for the Chinese market. I refuse to allow you to destroy a lifetime's work just to jack up your output of cheap product! And as far as I'm concerned, our agreement ends right here and now. I just wanted to tell you to your face.” He pulled out the agreement and tore it into shreds before Nicola's eyes.

Then he stepped toward the door.

“Just one thing . . . ,” Nicola managed to say.

Giovanale turned to look at him.

“How did you find out?”

“A friend of mine was kind enough to send me a text message. All it took was a little research for everything to be confirmed. I will never be able to thank him enough.”

And without further ado, the winemaker left the office with his head held high.

“Who the hell could have told him?” Nicola blew up, hurling the first thing he could find against the wall: a knickknack he'd always hated, which shattered into a million pieces.

Carla rushed into the room.

“What happened?”

Nicola explained the situation to her. How could Giovanale possibly have found out about the agreement with the Chinese, about the production of cheap wine? Who could
have warned him? Carla was at a loss. She didn't have the slightest idea. Whoever it was, was a bastard. Without those vineyards, the deal with the Chinese risked collapsing.

“If only I could find out who did this!” Nicola struggled to control his anger.

“Maybe there is a way.”

Nicola looked at her inquiringly. “What do you mean by that?”

“You said that whoever it was used a text message to inform him . . .” Nicola nodded, and she went on: “All you need is the record of the incoming calls on Giovanale's cell phone to find out who sent him that message.”

“That's impossible.”

Carla tried to make eye contact.

“It depends . . . Let's say I know the right person and it's someone who owes me a favor.”

Nicola's interest was aroused. “I would be immensely grateful to you.”

Carla gave him a profound look. “I'd do anything for you, you know that.”

Armando hadn't slept a wink. So that morning he'd gotten up early and taken Artusi to the Feniglia to let him frolic in the sand. For the first time in his life, the saying “There are plenty more fish in the sea” wasn't making him feel any better. And he had only himself to blame. Giulia was right. No matter that he hadn't gone and told everybody about their relationship. He'd deceived her, the same way he kept lying to his daughter. At another time in his life he would have laughed it off. But not now. He felt empty. It was the same painful emptiness he'd felt when Erica died. What could he do?
What could he do to make things go back to the way they were before?

Carla had kept her promise. The records were right there, on the passenger seat of his Touareg. Nicola thought that if he touched them, he might burn his fingers. It was proof that Margherita was guilty. The text message informing Giovanale had been sent from her phone. How could she have betrayed him like that? She'd never hidden her contempt for industrial food. She had been there for almost all his working dinners and she was also the only one in the village who knew that Nicola needed Giovanale's land to be able to produce industrial wine and satisfy the Chinese demand . . . He had trusted her, he'd let himself go . . . and now he would have to pay dearly for his lapse in judgment.

Completely unaware of the thoughts that were tormenting her father, as well as of the hell that was about to rain down on her, Margherita was busy with the complicated task of making a birthday cake for a boy who was a huge fan of the Fiorentina soccer team. She'd made the cake with flour, eggs, and butter the evening before. Margherita had decided she'd make it look like a soccer field with two teams on it, Fiorentina and Milan. She'd bought the players and the nets for the field but had made all the other parts herself. She arranged the rectangular cake on a tray, which she'd painted green, cut the cake across, and filled it with custard. Then she took the icing she'd prepared beforehand from the refrigerator and dyed it green by adding the food coloring. Having created a lovely lawn, she used a pastry
brush to coat the fondant with apricot jam. The thought of Nicola entered her mind. She remembered that wounded little boy's heart buried under layers of defensiveness, under a crust that was far more resistant than that icing. And he'd chosen to share that child's emotions with her. The thought moved her. She thought about a cake she could prepare for Nicola, one that would tell him how she felt, a new and special creation just for him . . .

The usual chorus of whistles, howling, and meowing that could be heard right before the doorbell rang brought Margherita back down to earth.

Margherita was still smiling when she opened the door.

Nicola wasn't smiling at all.

There was no trace of warmth in the eyes whose every nuance she'd learned to recognize . . . except this one. They looked black. As black as espresso.

He entered without saying a word, and Margherita's skin went cold, and her heart, too, as if summer had all at once been replaced by winter. Even the animals felt it—they all became silent at the same time. Artusi hid in a corner, while Ratatouille let out a deep growl and backed off.

Nicola looked her up and down with hostility.

“I'm sure you're satisfied.” His voice was even worse than the look in his eyes.

Margherita couldn't speak, paralyzed by that coldness.

Her mind, on the other hand, was working frantically.

What have I done? What have I said? What have I broken? What have I lost? What?

“Smart of you not to say anything!”

I'd like to, but my mind is petrified.

“Back in the war, spies would be killed, you know.”

War? Spies? Killed??

“Did
you enjoy hearing the story of the abused orphan?”

Has he been out drinking? Has he been stung by some poisonous insect? Has he banged his head on something?

Nicola stepped in her direction with a menacing air. Margherita backed up. Artusi barked.

Ratatouille, who had taken a few cautious steps toward Nicola's legs, leaped back, while Valastro crowed in a very high voice, “Orphan orphaaaaaaaaan!!!”

Nicola spun around and looked at Valastro with murder in his eyes.

Shut up, for God's sake!

Instinctively, Margherita stepped in front of the mynah and finally got her voice back.

“Nicola, I haven't understood a single word you've said,” she managed to utter. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Never been better,” he replied. “But I'm the kind of person who likes to know how things stand.”

Things? Which things? What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?

It may have been Valastro's crowing, or Artusi's soft growling, or Nicola's absurd behavior, but Margherita was suddenly herself again. She hadn't done anything wrong, so whatever this was all about, she was being accused unjustly. And she had no intention of putting up with it! She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and confronted this stranger—yes, because that was what he appeared to be now—who was looking at her with such hostility.

“Would you please explain what you're talking about?”

A flat tone, like dough rolled out paper-thin under a rolling pin: “It's about the message you sent to Giovanale's cell phone.”

Message? Telephone? Giovanale?

“I still don't understand.”

“ ‘Ravelli
produces cheap, adulterated wine for the Asian market.' ” He looked at her with fury in his eyes. “Remember now?”

She felt like a boxer who'd just, in rapid succession, taken a direct

—he's been lying to everyone

hook

—he buys vineyards so he can produce cheap wine

and an uppercut

—he's accusing me of having spied on him

and had ended up dazed, her ears ringing.

“Did you really think I wasn't ever going to find out?” he insisted. “Did you really think you could
fool me
?”

The look in his eyes put her in a corner. “Why did you do it?”

This was the knockout blow that was supposed to send her to the mat.

Except, Margy reacted.

“I didn't do anything, Nicola.”

The look in those big blue eyes was clear and direct. For an instant, Nicola wavered. But his anger got the better of him.

“You were the only one who knew about the contract with the Chinese, you heard me talking to Enrico. I was the one who told you how much I needed Giovanale's land to close the deal. You knew that without those vineyards, the whole deal would be off! Well, congratulations,” he spat out, “your plan succeeded. Giovanale has pulled out. No industrial wine around these parts!”

Something was starting to mount inside Margherita: indignation, anger. It was like dough that was rising and doubling in size. And it appeared as though the animals had
undergone a similar transformation, in perfect harmony: Ratatouille now resembled a colorful ball, while Asparagio's tail looked like that of an infuriated squirrel, and Artusi's fur had lifted up all along his backbone, as if the dog wanted to be bigger to defend himself—and her—from the threat he could sense.

Margherita's tone was just as angry as Nicola's. Actually, it was angrier.

“If anyone here is
fooling
other people, Nicola, it's you.”

He was caught off guard, but she continued vehemently.

“You've pulled the wool over everyone's eyes, you told everyone you were going to continue producing quality wine and the people here believed you! Instead, all you were interested in was your cheap product and, of course, the money you could make on it.” She pronounced the last words with sarcasm. “Money, always money: that's all that counts for you! They were right when they said you were a shark!”